


fame and infamy (you're a fairytale to me)

by jemejem



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: AFTG Big Bang 2020, Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Anxiety, Author!Andrew, Disabled Character, M/M, Meet-Ugly, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Witness Protection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26299357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jemejem/pseuds/jemejem
Summary: When Neil, an enormous fan of A.Doe's novels, stumbles into the quaint town of Palmetto, the last thing he expects to do is stay.And when Andrew, secretly A.Doe himself, meets the town's newest cryptid, the last thing he expects to do is fall.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 99
Kudos: 697
Collections: AFTG Big Bang 2020





	1. orientation

Their story was like any other, until - well until it wasn’t. For a start, there was no boy-meets-girl-they-fall-in-love. There was no _once upon a time, there lived a happy, young boy._ And of course, there would never be _and they lived happily ever after._

But a story is a story, even when it is about the storyteller. And like every story, it has to start somewhere. 

For Andrew Minyard, his story started from the moment he was born. Perhaps even the moment he was conceived. Unwanted and unwarranted, he was brought into the world and immediately shunned to the reject box. 

He grew up in said reject box: they called it the foster system. He never knew of his mother, or that his mother had taken back his identical twin brother. He hadn’t known his last name was Minyard until he was 13. He had grown up as Andrew Doe. The name fit him like a thrifted sweater: loose and broad and a little overused.

If fate was kind, and of course, she wasn’t, Andrew could have found his family and fallen into their welcoming arms, waking up from the nightmare that was pedophilic brothers and fathers and the neglect that starved him to the bone. If the world was right, he could have gone home and found one. 

Instead, he shut himself in a Californian juvenile detention centre and hid there till he was nearly 18. 

But it wasn’t an unproductive five years. See, Andrew had always been a stellar student. Driven by spite, he flunked enough subjects to be the object of his teachers’ or officers’ ire but outshone his cohort just enough that they were at a loss with what to do with him. What Andrew could do with a pen and paper was astounding: he had a gift, a way with words. At first, he scrawled in diaries and on spare sheets of paper. Then he was granted computer rights and spent hours typing away at draft, after draft, after draft. 

Andrew became the perfect conduit. A lack of affection and nurture from the age of - well, ever - meant he preferred not to foster emotion within him: instead, he spilled it all over the page, regurgitating detached thoughts and piecing them together into something beautiful. He could ensnare attention with a simple phrase. 

Andrew was, in every right, a brilliant storyteller. 

But, even with a degree in literature under his belt and the tragic car accident that’d snatched his mother and his right leg, Andrew had yet to find a muse. 

A storyteller couldn’t tell a story about nothing, after all. 

That was where Neil Josten came in. 

Like Andrew, Neil’s story was condemned from the very start. His birthrights were brutality and bloodshed: his father was a mobster and master at inflicting pain. His wife had remained placid for the early years of their marriage when Nathan Wesninski had still cherished her. When Neil - whose real name was Nathaniel Wesninski, after his father - was born, Nathan did not need a wife anymore. And when Neil wasn’t the son his father wanted him to be, Nathan realised his wife had failed him.

Neil couldn’t quite remember the earliest years of his life, but the memories he could recall were all interspersed with pain. His mother fled when he was ten, and for nearly eight years they survived, running and ducking his father’s attempts at finding them. 

This was where Andrew and Neil began to mirror one another. One boy was unwanted whilst the other was scoured for. One forced away from his familial connections whilst the other clutched to what little he had left. 

Neil, who shaped and reshaped and reshaped himself, again and again, was the perfect subject of a story. There were so many versions of himself that he couldn’t reconcile. He wore the cost of his lifestyle on his skin, his scars a story in of themselves. 

When he was 17, his story nearly ended: it would have, if his mother hadn’t aborted hers in his stead. She walked herself into Nathan’s knife and convinced him that his son was dead. She’d left him a letter that only said _keep going,_ and so Neil did. 

For another eight years, he did. He started narratives and never ended them: they never felt right, either too constricting or too loose around the chest. 

Then his father was killed. The estate was liberated to Neil, as his only living successor. It was all the world talked about for a month, maybe two: the terror of Baltimore was gone. 

And yet Neil, and his twisted, tortured story, remained. 

And so, for eight years, fate tried and tried to have them intercede. Andrew, the story-less writer, and Neil, the writer-less story. It was only a matter of time until they found one another.

That was where Palmetto came in. 

*

Neil slung his duffel over his shoulder as he stepped off the bus. It was a relief to not be immediately swarmed by photographers and press: he’d been sick to death of their invasive queries and prudent questioning. About the scars on his face, his role in his father’s death, his genetic inclination to follow in his father’s footsteps. The police had tried their best, but the whole world had demanded to know what was going to happen to Nathaniel Wesninski. 

Now he was here, with millions of his father’s dollars in his account and not a clue what to do with himself. 

Where _was_ here, exactly? 

Neil checked his phone: the time read 1:13 in the afternoon. The early winter breeze dawdled between the oak trees that lined the avenue, rustling golden leaves that had yet to twirl to the ground. The early morning frost was gone, leaving dew-dusted grass and puddles in the cracked pavement. 

The sign above the bus-stop was worn, the paint peeling, but the lettering was still obvious. 

_Right,_ Neil thought. _Palmetto._

He’d been granted a new name and a second chance, and he’d immediately taken himself to the most irrelevant place on earth. _Fine,_ Neil thought, shouldering the worn strap of his duffel. He’d lived in small towns before. Admittedly, they had all been under aliases and without any intention of staying for longer than six months, but even normal people came and went. He didn’t have to stay anywhere he didn’t like: he just couldn’t shed his identity when he deserted a place. The FBI had been pretty firm on that. 

The first thing he coined about the place was that it was almost paradoxical. Old brick facades contrasted the newly painted picket fences: overgrown yards were adjacent to perfectly trimmed nature strips. It was quiet enough that there were a group of kids playing at the end of a cul de sac, but the kids themselves were screaming with laughter and causing a general ruckus. Neil hefted his bag onto his shoulder and kept walking. 

  
The zipper of his duffel must’ve slipped because the thud of his favourite book on the ground spooked him out of his quiet reverie. He quickly snatched up his (utterly mottled) copy of A. Doe’s _Dreamless Boy_ , of which the author published about three years ago. His newest was only about a month old and titled _Dear Mom,_ but Neil had yet to read it. He planned to, as soon as the moment arose. The last few months had been so chaotic, his father’s death back in February leading to the capture and conviction of his inner circle...Neil had still been testifying, just over three weeks ago. 

The cover of _Dreamless Boy_ was blood red, the text small in the upper corner. The author’s name was even smaller beneath it, written in black. There was no description, no fancy stickers for awards, not even a barcode (it was inside the back cover). Neil had picked it up on a whim, curious about the blank, red spine. 

_I am alone because it is easiest,_ Neil’s favourite character liked to say. _The only danger to me is the other._

He tucked A. Doe’s book under his arm and continued past the small cottages and bungalows, just as the sun started to speckle the ground, done with shying away behind the clouds. 

An elderly woman was watching him from her front porch. Something akin to panic - but quieter - swept over him. He tugged the hood lower over his face and continued. 

The avenue, Neil eventually realised, was an arc that connected both ends of the interstate pass. Perpendicular to it was the main street of town: he arrived at the corner, proudly marked with _Perimeter Drive,_ to observe the bustle of a serene small town. 

Shopfronts lined both sides of the street, vintage-looking lamp-posts dotting the sidewalks symmetrically. Most of the stores were two storeys high, with shopkeeper’s flats or further businesses stacked on top of one another. A few market stalls dotted the thickest sections of pavement, most of them selling fresh goods. Neil was momentarily struck by the homeliness of it all. It was like a 1950s movie, but real. 

He tugged down his hood and slowly paced his way down Perimeter Drive. He passed the sheriff’s office, a tailor, an old bakery and a vintage store, two overstuffed armchairs upholstered with red paisley sitting out the front. Two cafes marked the east and west ends of the street, and even the one modern grocery chain had old wooden carts of apples and oranges out the front. 

A tech store, whilst relatively up to date (at least, more current than Neil’s struggling flip phone) had a wall of old box televisions, pressed up against the glass and showing Oprah in black and white. The chemist had an old red cross sign, _pharmaceuticals_ spelled out in wooden letters. 

It was charming, in that dreadful way that made Neil wonder what it was covering up.

The very end of the street heralded a retro diner, the second cafe and the town’s only inn. Between the cafe and the inn were a narrow doorway and a similarly width-sized window: it seemed as though someone had built a shop out of an alleyway. 

By the looks of the cushioned bay window and the stacks of books on every visible surface, it was a bookstore. An old tungsten bulb hung from the ceiling, and Neil could see the different shades of exposed brick from both the cafe and inn heralding shelves and shelves of books. 

Neil should’ve probably focussed on getting a place to stay the night, but the bookshop drew him in: he wasn’t sure if it was the hanging sign that said _The Den_ in gold embossed letters or the brass door-handle: Neil just knew it reminded him of better times in Europe when he and his mother canvassed the streets of West London in a rare moment of peace. 

Neil had always had a weakness for bookstores.

Inside was - at first - impossibly chaotic. The only semblance of order was that the books were placed in sections according to the author’s last name, but there was no division between fact or fiction, children’s nor adults. Some looked new and others were classics, worn over decades of use. It smelled like - pine, maybe. Cedar. Something earthy and rich. Neil’s fingers instinctively brushed over books as he walked by, holding his duffel close to his chest as he wandered the narrow aisles. 

Books had always been a safe escape for Neil. His father hadn’t distracted him from reading, because if his son wasn’t going to be a ruthless murderer then maybe his intelligence could prove as useful. Similarly, his mother permitted reading during their time on the run, so long as he was reading it in the language she wanted him to learn next. It was easy to get your hands on a book, no matter where you were. Reading became Neil’s safe space, free from the nightmares of his existence. 

He scoured every shelf of the D section and found none of Doe’s books, which struck him as odd: this was exactly the sort of place that his books belonged, in this haphazard collection of things forgotten and found. 

The man behind the desk hadn’t looked as Neil had entered the shop, and he didn’t shift from his position even as Neil approached the desk. He had one leg propped up on his chair, resting his chin on his knee-cap as he looked at his laptop screen. An empty document was reflected in his black-rimmed glasses, the cursor blinking in his hazel gaze. A beanie was tugged over his pale hair, the black hoodie swathing him in comfort. 

He had no visible nametag but kept a cane by his side. 

“Excuse me,” Neil said. 

He slowly dragged his gaze up. His lips twitched as he scoured Neil’s face, the scars across his cheeks and knuckles. He didn’t fix his posture or ask Neil anything, raising a questioning brow instead. 

Neil huffed. “Right. I was just going to ask - do you have A. Doe’s newest book?”

The man blinked slowly, tension stiffening his shoulders. After a moment he recovered his nonchalant facade and drawled: “Look at the sign.” Neil’s eyes flitted up to the letterboard above the man’s head, just as he echoed the pinned statement: “‘We don’t stock trash.’” 

Heat rose to Neil’s cheeks. “He’s not _trash.”_

“Fascinating,” the man said, looking back to his computer. 

“He’s not,” Neil insisted. “Have you even read his work? You probably haven’t looked away from your pretentious analysis of _Catcher in the Rye_ in years. Maybe if you read something else you’d realise how far up your ass that stick is.”

“Aren’t you just defensive,” the man sneered, but Neil knew he’d caught him off-guard. He could see it in the twitch at the corner of his eye. 

_Fuck this asshole,_ Neil thought, pacing away from the desk. He’d known that Palmetto’s pretty facade was hiding something. 

“It’s a wonder this store gets any business,” he threw over his shoulder. 

“A miracle,” the owner shot back. Neil flipped him off for good measure. 

Just as the door swung shut, he heard a vehement _“Minyard, who the hell are you antagonising now?”_ Neil simply scoffed, readjusting his bag as he went one door over for a place to stay. 

He probably wouldn’t stay in Palmetto longer than a week. Money wasn’t the issue. He just wasn’t quite sure if he was ready to stay somewhere permanently. 

With that thought in mind, he wandered up to the front desk of the inn and waited. 

“Oh, thank fuck!” gasped a woman as she rounded a corner. Her short hair was wrapped up in a floral bandana, a silver ring through her nose contrasting dark eyes. She had a phone in one hand and a crying toddler in the other. Neil’s bag was almost shoved off his shoulder in favour of her dropping the child into his arms. 

For a moment Neil looked at the kid and the kid looked at him, blinking. Then it started wailing again. 

“I’m so sorry,” she gushed, the badge on her breast-pocket saying _Dan_ and _Sheriff._ “Mrs Hernandez just fell over and knocked herself out, she’s bleeding everywhere and I’m trying to get Abby on the phone but she _won’t answer - ”_ she growled at the phone when it went to voicemail and dialled again, rushing past the desk. Neil immediately followed, hauling his bag off to one side and trying to blot out the child that was shrieking in his ear. 

The scene was graphic: head wounds always were, Neil mused. There was a first-aid box cracked open on the floor, but Dan was clearly way over her head. 

Neil knelt down by the woman’s head and gently cradled her neck. He didn’t feel any inflammation or tenderness, so her neck probably wasn’t too bad. The blood was pooling from a scratch above her right ear, but it wasn’t too deep: she probably wouldn’t even need stitches. Neil quickly doused his hands in sanitiser and folded up a wad of gauze, applying pressure. 

_Careful Abram,_ his mother hissed in his ear as he’d eased bullet shrapnel out of her arm. 

With the gauze padding the wound, he used bandages around the woman’s head to keep it secure. There was swelling around where she’d whacked her head, but it definitely wasn’t a fracture. He needed to try and wake the woman out of unconsciousness: it wasn’t good for someone with a concussion to sleep. He took off his sweater and put it under her head, rolling her into the proper recovery position in case she woke and threw up or choked. 

“Oh!” said Dan, having returned. Neil glanced up, noting two new people in the room. One was a middle-aged woman with a white coat and gloves: another was a short man, completely identical to the asshole that Neil had just met five minutes prior. He didn’t look disinterested like his doppelganger, but rather, quite pissed off: he was also dressed formally, instead of a hoodie and a beanie, his glasses wire-framed. Dan hoisted the crying child into her arms, whispering shushes. 

“It’s a cut to the scalp above her ear,” Neil said, stepping away from Mrs Hernandez. “It shouldn’t need stitches, and she’s breathing properly.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man snapped. The woman - presumably Abby - shushed him with a nudge to the ribs. The two of them knelt beside Mrs Hernandez and inspected her, just as Neil had. They got out the stretcher and helped her on, hoisting her up. 

“Thank you,” Abby noted, nodding in Neil’s direction. “We’ll take care of her.” A moment later they were gone. 

“...yes, Mr Hernandez, Dr Winfield and Dr Minyard - Aaron - have taken her, but I’m sure she’ll be okay: Abby hasn’t called for an ambulance. Yes, Robin is okay too, I have her. I’ll see you in ten minutes.” Dan hung up and tucked her phone into her pocket, finally looking at the toddler in her arms. “Robin, Daddy’s coming to pick you up, okay? Everything’s okay. Mommy’s going to be okay.” She pressed a delicate kiss to the child’s forehead, bouncing her till she quietened down. 

Finally, she looked at Neil. “Well. That was quite the introduction.” 

Neil huffed. “You don’t say.” 

“You’re from out of town?” Neil nodded. “I’m so sorry about this disaster. She fell probably thirty seconds before you arrived: she’s the caretaker. I don’t actually own this place,” Dan said, gesturing around her. Only then did Neil glance around and appreciate the stained oak interior. It was cosy and warm. “I’m the sheriff, but that’s just a fancy word for mayor. My office is down the road, but Allison - she manages the inn - asked me to watch over the place whilst she pops out of town for the weekend.” Dan shook her head. “I should never accept the offer: it usually means Renee’s gone too, and she’s my detective. Contrary to popular belief, I can’t run a town on my own.”

Neil had no reference as to who any of these people were, so he just nodded, hooking his bag over his shoulder. 

“Again, I’m so sorry,” Dan reiterated. Robin cooed and played with her hoop earrings. “I’m Danielle Wilds, but you can call me Dan. Welcome to Palmetto.”

“I’m Neil Josten,” Neil said. He liked how it rolled off his tongue. “Is there any vacancy for the week?” 

“I’ll take a look,” Dan promised, hoisting the child over to the reception desk. There was a fat book of check-in and out dates which she quickly perused, cross-referencing with a calendar and a diary. Then she beamed up at him. “We’ve got two spare rooms for the week. Double or single bed?” 

“Single is fine,” Neil promised. 

“What are you doing down here in Palmetto? Visiting someone?” Dan wedged the pen cap between her teeth as she wrote down his name. 

“Uh - no. Just…” _Don’t lie. You don’t need to lie. There’s no need to run._ “Just looking for somewhere to settle, actually.” 

Dan arched her brow. “Oh?” 

Neil shrugged. “I’ve always liked small towns.” 

Her smile was blinding. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. And you’ve met the right people, too. We should chat later! I can help you out there. You need a job, too?” 

“Sure?” 

“Brilliant.” Dan enthused, readjusting Robin, who was now fully gnawing on her shirt collar. “Let me take you to your room and get you settled in. Rest a bit, but then let’s have dinner. It’ll be on me.” 

“It’s fine - “ Neil attempted, but Dan shut him down. 

“Not many people come through Palmetto, Neil,” Dan said, cheerful. “I extend this welcome to all new guests. No ifs or buts. Right, this way!” 

“Yes, officer, ” Neil mumbled, following her up the stairs. 

The room was small and neat, and the window opened out for a view over the suburbs. Flowers were potted at the windowsill: his room had a small fridge, a television, a single bed, shower, toilet and sink. There were an armchair and a tiny desk. Its fluffy rug was more comfortable than many of the shitholes Neil had wormed into during his life on the run. 

“I hope it’s alright,” she said, a little nervous. “I think it’s one of Allie’s smaller rooms - “

“It’s perfect,” Neil assured her. 

“Great,” Dan sighed, relieved. “Good. Right, well, I’ve got to get little Robin to her dad, and I should probably check in with Abby - Dr Winfield - in a half hour. If you’ve got any questions about billing, please just come back down to the desk. Here’s your key,” she said, throwing it to him. Then she winked. “I’ll see you later for dinner?” 

_Do I have a choice?_ Neil wondered, having just observed the undeniable force that Dan just _was._ “Alright.” 

“Well,” Dan said, closing the door behind her. “It was lovely to meet you!” 

With that, she was gone. 

_Welcome to Palmetto,_ Neil thought again, but this time it was a little more shell-shocked than wry. 

*


	2. complication

Andrew knew everything there was to know about Neil Josten before their second encounter. Nicky told Andrew he was looking to settle: Dan was figuring out somewhere for him to work. He was to be 26 on the 31st of March and was from Baltimore. 

Aaron mentioned that he seemed to have some rudimentary first-aid training. He’d helped Mrs Hernandez when she’d fallen over to staunch the bleeding and rolled her into the proper recovery position. 

It was also Aaron who’d confirmed that the mysterious Josten was indeed the slight looking, scarred little dickhead who’d walked into Andrew’s store and told Andrew to read his own fucking books. So Andrew knew that Neil Josten liked A. Doe.

But that was it. 

There seemed to be nothing about ‘Neil Josten’ online, no profiles, not a single mention or photograph of the sharp-tongued red-head. The search was useless except for the fact it’d filled up a few useless hours of his day, but nothing about the stranger sat right in his stomach. 

Being the modern equivalent of a cryptid was one thing. But staunchly defending Andrew’s honour to some random asshole he’d just met? Andrew couldn’t help but find it fascinating. He’d overheard conversations about his books before - he, apparently, was famous now, or something - but never to his face. And how dare the little shit accuse him of liking  _ Catcher in the Rye. _

They had first met on Sunday afternoon: the next time Andrew saw him was when Nicky had everyone over on the first Wednesday night of the month, as per usual. Except for this time, Dan saw it fit to drag along her newest project. As usual, though, Dan and Matt (and thus the elusive Neil Josten) was late.

Andrew always tucked himself into his favourite armchair and glared at everyone who tried to approach him, so he was usually left alone. He had his old copy of Cormac McCarthy’s  _ The Road _ balanced on his lap, a cup of tea on the nightstand by his chair. Usually if he wanted to relax he’d take the prosthetic leg off, but oncoming company meant he was to keep it on. 

Wednesday’s guests arrived in a steady flow: First, there was Allison and Renee, dragging Kevin along. Kevin brought his wife Thea, his father and his father’s wife, and Kevin’s wife brought her brother Jean and Jean’s boyfriend, Jeremy. Alvarez and Laila eventually trailed in, and then there was suddenly an odd dozen people in Andrew’s living space. 

He fucking hated these Wednesdays. 

“Hello,” Renee said graciously, perched lightly on the arm of the nearest couch as the noise levels rose. Wymack had doled out the beer and Allison and Nicky started bickering about rice cooking methods. Aaron had finally graced the rabble with his presence, Katelyn sneaking down sheepishly behind him. 

Andrew grunted at Renee, looking at his book and not really reading it. 

“Is Bee coming?” She stole a sip of his tea: he glared at her, knowing she was checking if he had any alcohol in his brew. She smiled at him, affecting innocence. 

“She had manuscripts,” Andrew muttered, snatching his tea back from his best friend. It nearly sloshed all over his hand. 

“Ah, well. Maybe next time.” 

“I can only handle one of these fiascos a month.” 

Renee hummed. She, too, was more introverted than extroverted, but her girlfriend was always the life of the party, and where Allison was, Renee was too. The Palmetto residents were all one complicated family, really: Nicky’s first-Wednesday-of-the-month dinners weren’t the only gatherings they held, but it was the longest standing tradition. Andrew couldn’t remember the last time he was allowed to start a new month in peace. He grumbled this under his breath and Renee merely snorted. 

“I heard you’ve already met our new mystery,” Katelyn said, bringing over some snacks so that Andrew didn’t have to get up. It was the only reason he tolerated her. 

“And I heard you and Aaron all last night. The walls are thin, Katelyn. What gives?” 

“You live downstairs,” she grumbled, immediately red-cheeked. 

Luckily for her, Dan and Matt arrived with a gracious slam of the door, heralding big grins and gracious hellos. And, of course:  _ him. _

He walked through the door wearing old jeans and a simple t-shirt under a ratty hoodie. His shoulders were curled in, his fingers picking at the threads of his sleeves. In the evening glow of camaraderie, Neil Josten seemed like not much at all.

Andrew watched him as he looked around the house, eyeing family photographs and the pictures of Aaron graduating and Nicky being proposed to last time Erik came over to see him. The curtains were all made by Nicky’s mother, the cushions upholstered by her too, and it was so disconcertingly homely that sometimes it made Andrew sick. 

By the looks of things, it made Neil uneasy too. He didn’t fit in here: The wicked knife gashes on one cheek arched from his eye to his jaw, whilst burns curved along the arch of his cheekbone. In truth, they were ghastly. A lot of things about Neil seemed to be atrocious: the demarcations on his skin, his fashion sense, his ability to conceal his discomfort. He was immediately swarmed by the others, overwhelmed by rapid-fire introductions and peppered questions. Owlish ocean eyes blinked, astounded at being the centre of attention. His trousers weren’t tight enough to tell - not that Andrew was looking - if that was a flip phone in his back pocket, but Andrew was pretty sure that it was. 

And well, shit: Andrew wanted to talk to him. 

Renee, all-knowing as she was, grinned at him. “Well, isn’t that just intriguing.” 

“Go annoy your girlfriend,” he said, jabbing her ankle with his cane. She held her hands up in surrender and let him be. 

Neil still hadn’t noticed him, or if he had, he hadn’t made any obvious deductions that they’d already met a few days ago. It took about ten minutes of Andrew getting sick of waiting for Neil’s gaze to drift over to him - it seemed as though everyone was vying for the new boy’s attention - so he got up and stretched. With his cane in one hand and his book in the other, he directed himself towards the back door for a smoke. 

“Andrew,” Nicky called. “If you don’t help me cook you’re on clean-up.” 

Andrew flipped him off, patting his pockets to check his cigarettes and lighter were both there. He glanced over his shoulder only once, just to catch Neil Josten’s eye. The man was glaring and not unsubtly, either. For a moment Andrew challenged him: eventually, he dropped his gaze, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 

Pathetic. Anyone who liked his writing _ had  _ to be pathetic. 

And yet, there were copies of his book within his own fucking home. Even Nicky had read and enjoyed them. It wasn’t like any of them knew he’d written them - the only people who knew A. Doe’s true identity was Higgins, his publishing agent, and Betsy, who was his editor. Renee knew Andrew was a writer but he’d never told her he was published. As for his immediate family: they thought he was just a deadweight. Nicky hadn’t a clue that Andrew had rerouted his mortgage fund into a separate account for Nicky to use later on, because he’d already paid off the damned mortgage. Useless his  _ ass. _

But even if he wasn’t successful - even if he was to never make a single cent - Andrew knew that writing would still be all he did. He was born to be an author. That was the only thing in his life he was sure of. 

He lit up a cigarette and fit it between his lips, settling into the old couch that Nicky had rescued a few years ago when Kevin moved out of his mother’s place after she’d passed. The springs were practically broken, what with how much time Andrew spent writing out here in the spring and summer. Smoke clouded in front of his face as he took a long drag, watching it dissipate into the frigid winter air. 

Eventually, Nicky brought out some of his signature paellas, depositing the plate into Andrew’s waiting hands. 

“You don’t want to come in?” his cousin asked. Andrew shook his head. “Alright. Well - let me know if I can get you a blanket - you know, if you’re too cold.” 

Andrew didn’t tell him thanks, knowing the slight nod was enough. The food was good, and with a wall between him and the chaos, the sound of chatter and laughter was almost soothing. 

In the quiet, he thought about his newest draft. 

Or, really, a lack thereof. 

See, ever since he had sent off his final manuscript for  _ Dear Mom, _ back in September, he’d written nothing else. He’d wracked his brain for something,  _ anything,  _ but found nothing. He’d already talked about his cracked shell: what was he supposed to write about if there was nothing within?

In a moment of weakness, he’d looked up  _ writing prompts.  _ He’d stared balefully at a Tumblr post, the top of the pathetic list saying  _ write about someone or something you love, _ before quitting out of his browser and going back to his blank draft. 

Sometimes he’d write 10k in a night, stop and delete everything. Sometimes he’d write dozens of 100-word sentences of complete garbage, rambling about nothing, and stay awake all night trying to find something of worth. 

Still: nothing. 

He’d mentioned it offhandedly to Bee once but shut her down when she started asking questions. She hadn’t inquired about it since, but both of them were starkly aware that to go a month without handing anything into her was rare, let alone three. 

Bee, Bee, Bee. They’d met through Wymack, seeing as the bookstore was her grandmother’s. She was going through college and sold it to try and make ends meet, but Wymack decided to keep it as a bookstore out of respect for Bee’s grandmother and they became fast friends. She borrowed his car to drive to and from Columbia as she applied for editing firms. Wymack met Abby, Bee’s old friend from college when Bee encouraged her to start up a general practice in Palmetto, a town that desperately needed one. 

Andrew met Bee a few months after he’d started work at Wymack’s. She’d lured him into a conversation, and when Andrew found that he didn’t hate her company, gave her his first manuscript.  _ And you call yourself dreamless,  _ she’d tease him. That was where the title had been born. He’d found Higgins through her, too. He owed her probably most of his career. 

As if summoned by thought, his phone buzzed. 

_ Sorry I couldn’t make it tonight! Coffee tomorrow morning? - Betsy _

Andrew rolled his eyes.  _ Fine. You’re paying,  _ he responded, even though her paycheck was technically his revenue anyway. 

All she sent back was a smiley face. He shook his head and tucked away his phone, taking a heady drag of his cigarette. 

The back door swung open, momentarily letting the chaos from inside filter out. Andrew heard snapshots of Matt’s laughter, Allison’s sneer, a little bit of Jeremy’s sunshine. Wymack grunting in response to Nicky’s ridiculousness, Abby and Dan and Renee chatting amicably. 

The door swung closed again, just as Neil Josten in all his mediocrity wandered over to the railing and leaned on his elbows, looking out into the unkempt backyard. 

“I was here first,” Andrew muttered.

Neil glared over his shoulder. “Oh, good. You’re an infantile asshole all the time. At least you’re consistent.” 

“Are we talking about consistency, now? I’m surprised you know what that is. You don’t really seem, well,  _ real,  _ Mr Josten.” 

“Funny,” the man said, dry. “We are what we’re raised to be, aren’t we?”

Andrew hummed. How profound. He lugged his leg off the couch and shuffled back to give Neil enough room to sit, shaking his pack. “Want a cigarette?” 

Neil arched his brow. “How’d you know?”

Andrew just shook two out of the pack and tucked one between his lips. Neil came and perched precariously on the edge of the couch, tilting his head over Andrew’s lighter and taking a deep breath. Then he took it out and held it by his jaw. Andrew eyed it, suspicious. 

“I don’t revere  _ Catcher in the Rye,”  _ he said, offhandedly. “It’s egocentric male bullshit.” 

“Because you’re not that category?” Neil asked, batting his eyelashes. Seriously, who the fuck had lashes so long they could bat them like a Hollywood glamour girl?

“Talk shit all you like, Josten. You’re the one that likes A. Doe.” Saying his pseudonym out loud was - fucking  _ weird. _

Something clouded over his gaze. “I won’t talk to someone about something they haven’t even read.” 

Laughter threatened to bubble up from Andrew’s chest, but Andrew couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed. Maybe it was never. “Of course I’ve read the stupid books. I just think they’re garbage.” Neil opened his mouth to say something but Andrew held up his hand. “No. I don’t give a fuck what you think.” 

Neil huffed but, to his credit, diverted the conversation. He nursed his cigarette back to life but left it hanging at the corner of his jaw again, not smoking it. He glanced over his shoulder and looked back to Andrew with an arched brow. “Not enjoying the party?” 

“That party wouldn’t enjoy  _ me.”  _

“How dramatic,” Neil drawled. 

Andrew cocked his head. “You seemed so skittish in there. Does anyone else know these are your true colours?” 

His cheeks - and their accompanying scars - flushed scarlet. “I’m not good at controlling my temper.”

“You don’t say,” Andrew muttered. 

“Why bother with the facade if you’ve already seen through it?” Neil continued. “There’s no point.” 

“I wouldn’t know. I live by honesty.” 

“You don’t say,” Neil parrotted. 

Andrew glared. Neil didn’t look away.  _ What the fuck is wrong with this man?  _ He threw the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray on the old coffee table. “You’re just passing through, yes?” 

Neil immediately went back to fiddling with his sleeve, sucking air through his cigarette like it was the only way for him to breathe. “I - I don’t know yet. But they have a place for me already, maybe even a job. I don’t - I’m not sure I can say yes. They’re all so fucking  _ nice.”  _

Before Neil’s brittle fingers could crumble the neglected cigarette to pieces, Andrew snatched it out of his hand and tucked it between his lips. Neil blinked, looking at where the cigarette used to rest. It seemed to snap him out of his strange reverie. 

“I was smoking that,” Neil objected. 

“No you weren’t,” Andrew accused. “And of course you can say ‘no’ to them. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Just because they’re genuine and way too overbearing doesn’t mean you’re obligated to go along with their puppeteering.”

“Are they all your family?” 

They most certainly didn’t look it, did they? “My cousin, Nicky - the tall, bronzed one - would say yes. My twin would agree, but not out loud.” 

“And you?” Neil inquired. 

Andrew had never met someone interested in what he thought. “They invited themselves in, but it’s been five years. I might as well let them stay.” 

Neil hummed. Quietly, almost like he didn’t think Andrew would hear, he said: “I’ve never had a family before.” 

And - 

_ Oh.  _ Oh. 

“Excuse me,” Andrew said, hoisting himself up to his feet. The man blinked. “Well. It was horrible reacquainting with you.” 

“Likewise,” Neil said. “Thanks for the cigarette.” 

“Next time you should smoke it properly, you heathen.” 

And Neil - because he was a fucking  _ menace _ \- saluted Andrew. 

He hurried past the full kitchen and the even more full living room, bee-lining for his bedroom door that was situated under the staircase. He let himself in and locked the door. 

His laptop was sitting on his bed, neglected and all on its lonesome. Andrew snatched it up and yanked it open, the blank draft immediately appearing on his screen. 

_ pipedream,  _ he wrote. 

And then he  _ wrote.  _


	3. series of events

“You’re joking,” Neil said, voice all breathy. 

Allison shrugged. “Why not? You’ve only booked the room at my inn for a week, so you either pay for another or sign a lease.”

  
“But - there’s no one looking to buy the house? Why the hell are you offering it to me? What if I had four dollars to my name?” Try fourteen million, but that was mostly blood money that Neil didn’t feel like touching. He’d deal with it in some way or another. 

Her manicured fingers - with short, but pink-painted nails - ruffled his hair affectionately. Neil had never endured the likes of casual affection before, not from his mother and most certainly not from his father. Allison and Matt - Dan’s boyfriend, and the local bus driver, of whom Neil had met when Dan asked him over to her place for dinner - had both taken to ruffling his hair. Maybe it was because he was so short. 

“You see many people coming in and out of here, Neil?” Allison said. “You’re a bit of a rarity. I have to psych my sales pitch onto you regardless of whether or not you can afford it. Besides,” she winked. “Renee has a few ideas waiting for you when you get back to the inn.”

Neil gulped. 

“Don’t look so terrified,” the woman shook her head, bopping his nose with the tip of his finger. “We’re just trying to help you.” 

_ But why?  _ Neil wanted to scream.  _ People didn’t help out of the goodness of their heart. Kindness was just a mask for pain.  _ Neil couldn’t fathom why the hell they were all so invested in helping him out. “I don’t need help.”

Except for Andrew, of course. 

_ You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. _

Allison snorted. “You’re truly a piece of work, you know that?”

He huffed. “Fine. Show me around the place.” 

Her cheer carried down the street. She enthusiastically hooked their arms together and opened the front gate of the house, pulling Neil inside. 

The front garden looked practically maniacal, but the house itself wasn’t too bad. There was a fresh paint coat across the weatherboards, and the brick seemed washed. There was a little wear on the front door’s golden knob, but the wrought-iron security door seemed intact. 

Allison led him into the house. It was quite small, as she’d previously mentioned, the introductory space a living and dining room, the kitchen separated only by a half wall. There was a fireplace off to one side, two well-worn loveseats and two seats at the rickety table. Neil didn’t know there would already be furniture: he wondered if Allison would let him keep it or if it was just for show. 

The kitchen gave way to two rooms: a large bathroom, which led onto a laundry and a door to the back porch, and the bedroom. The bedroom itself was large, with wardrobes all across one wall and large windows that looked across the porch and into the large backyard. There was a gate in the fence. 

“You’d live right against the park,” Allison recalled, squinting at the offending gate. “Though I’m pretty sure Seth let the hedges behind that fence grow over the gate. You could trim them and then it’d be fine.”

“Seth?” 

Allison’s lips curled into a sneer. “Old ex-boyfriend. We broke up a long while ago but he never stopped being a bastard. Moved out of town a month ago.”

Neil started. “And you want me to live here? In his old place?” 

She ruffled his hair again. “This house needs someone to rewrite its memories. And without meaning to be crass, I think you do too.” 

Neil hummed slightly, unable to trust his voice not to break if he spoke. 

“Neil,” Allison said, spinning him around to face her. He looked up at her, blinking. “We all get it, you know?” 

“What?” 

She made a vague gesture to his face. “None of us started in Palmetto. We all come from different worlds of tragedy. And whilst I can’t say I’ve ever experienced anything that it seems you have,” she cupped his face in her hands. “We know how hard it is to pick up the pieces and keep going.”

“Is that why you’re helping me?”

Allison snorted. “Me? Fuck, no. I just have too much time and money on my hands to know what’s good for me. Speaking of, all this furniture is yours. And I  _ will  _ take you to Columbia for IKEA and some decent fucking clothes if you don’t sort the situation out for yourself.” 

“Might as well plan it now,” Neil said, lighthearted. He’d never been very conscious about material things. When Allison realised what he’d said, she squealed and tugged him into a hug. 

It made his stomach swoop, but her hug was warmer than his mother’s terrified embraces had ever been. Slowly, ever so slowly, he let himself relax, the rose perfume and dangling pearl earrings reminiscent of nothing and no one else.

Maybe she was right. Maybe it was time to start overwriting his story. 

*

He tugged his duffel of groceries back over his shoulder and bid Mr Hernandez goodbye, readying himself for the ten-minute walk back to his place. Dan had offered to help him find a bike - it was an easy way to get around Palmetto, apparently - but he’d only ridden one in a panicked chase in Montreal at the age of twelve, and hadn’t touched one since. 

As he was walking towards his new house, he drew up short outside Andrew’s bookshop - of which he learned was Wymack’s - his hand hesitating over the door handle. 

Their odd conversation on Wednesday and Andrew’s abrupt departure had, against Neil’s better judgement, carved themselves a new space in the corner of Neil’s brain. A bay-window to sit upon and observe Neil in all his disastrous glory if you will. It wasn’t that Neil couldn’t stop thinking about the man, it was just that fragments of their brief exchange resurfaced at the strangest of times. 

_ Fuck it, _ Neil thought and pushed the door inwards. 

Andrew was still sitting behind his desk, glaring at his screen. It didn’t seem so blank this time. He only looked up when Neil was standing right before him, scowling when he recognised who was in his presence. 

“Hello,” Neil said, placid. “I was wondering if you had a recommendation?”

Something in Andrew’s gaze shifted. “You are insufferable, you know that?” 

Neil shrugged. When Andrew went to stand, he stepped closer to the desk. “I can find it if you tell me what it is.” 

“Could you? Humour me, Josten. Do you understand how these books are organised?” 

“They’re not,” Neil objected. 

Andrew tapped his temple. “Exactly. Now, out of my way.” 

Neil let him pass, the end of his cane tapping against the whorled floorboards. “How do  _ you  _ know where anything is?” 

Andrew looked over his shoulder. His scarf was so voluminous that it covered half his face, and Neil was struck with how picturesque the scene was, between two dark-oak shelves, warm light glowing overhead. It seemed almost - ethereal. 

“I never forget where I’ve put a book,” was all the man said, before snatching one from the shelf. 

He threw it into Neil’s waiting hands, and Neil choked a little in an attempt not to laugh. “Are you serious?” 

Andre gave him the flattest of stares. “It’s a good book.” 

Neil bit his cheek, looking at the book’s title:  _ life is so good.  _ “Okay. You’re serious.” 

The man just rolled his eyes. He shuffled by Neil to get back to his desk, and Neil let him, clutching the small autobiography to his chest. 

“How much?” Neil inquired, leaning his hip against Andrew’s desk. 

“Ten,” the man muttered, snapping his fingers as he pointed a shrewd glare to his laptop screen. 

Neil looked at the tattered state of the book and looked back to Andrew. “Really, now.”

The man looked up and cocked his head. “Five for the read, five for the recommendation. Now, get out of my store: you’ve overstayed your welcome.” 

Neil flipped him off again, but he wasn’t angry: he was amused. The corner of his lips had quirked up out of his own volition, and he was too slow to smother it. Andrew simply stared. 

It took a moment for Neil to register that his phone was ringing: when he fished it out, he fumbled with it for a few more seconds and finally pressed the receiver to his ear. 

“Hello?” 

“Wesninski,” the man addressed him. “It’s Browning.” 

Whatever weight had been lifted from his shoulders slammed back down by a tenth-fold. He nearly dropped the book. “What do you want?”

“Malcolm’s appealing.” 

Something tightened in his throat. “Which one?” 

“Lola.”  _ Of course,  _ Neil thought. “She won’t get through: there’s no way in hell. We’ve busted the Wesninski ring through and through, Neil. I just thought you should know.”   
  


“Well,” Neil managed, closing his eyes. Dashboard lighters. Handcuffs. Chloroform. Screams. “Thanks.” 

“Still Neil?”

“Yes.”

“Still in South Carolina?” 

“ _ Yes.”  _

“Good,” the agent huffed. “Just doing my job.” And with that, he hung up.

Neil snapped the phone shut, realising he was still standing in Andrew’s bookstore, having yet paid for his purchase. 

“Sorry,” he managed, his skin all feeling all taut and wrong. He should leave. He should pack up and leave. He should have never thought he could settle. Not here. Not anywhere. Lola wouldn’t try for an appeal if she didn’t think she had a chance. 

Andrew was standing in front of him between one blink and another: he snapped his fingers in front of Neil’s face, but immediately withdrew when Neil flinched. Instead, he reached up and dug his fingers into the back of Neil’s neck. 

The weight was unfamiliar enough to draw him out of his head. They were both leaning against the wooden desk, Andrew having neglected his cane and Neil unsure if his legs could support him. 

When the horrors of the night his father died finally cleared, he hiccupped a little, standing out of his slouched position. Andrew searched his eyes and seemed satisfied with what he saw.

“Family stuff,” Neil said, lightly. His hoarse voice betrayed him. “Ignore that.”

Andrew hummed, holding out his hand. “Ten dollars.”

Neil forked over the cash, picking up his duffel and new book as he swivelled for the door. He looked over his shoulder once to give Andrew a two-fingered salute and said: “Thanks.” 

Andrew simply glared back. 

*

**_how to get out of writer’s block_ ** _ posted on a.doe.tumblr.com at 2:56 am 2/12/20- _

_ Do something stupid.  _

_ Bungee off a bridge, eat that weird thing in your freezer, shave your head. Sock that asshole in the mouth. Pierce your tongue. Start an Etsy store. Get a train and don’t get off till they make you. _

_ Or, you could do what I’ve done, and meet someone who could ruin you.  _

_ Someone who is so perfectly intriguing and irritating and multifaceted. Someone who panics over a seemingly amicable phone call and has the audacity to apologise. Someone who doesn’t know how to smoke his cigarettes properly. Someone who dresses and acts like he wishes he could dissolve into the shadows on the wall, but looks at you with a fire in his eyes so antagonistic and passionate that it’s impossible to miss, even in a crowd. _

_ He’s someone with a story, and I need to fucking know what that story is. At this rate, it’ll take me weeks to know his real name. As for the rest of it? Perhaps years. He’s so easy to read but so impossible to know.  _

_ I fucking hate him. _

_ This someone doesn’t own a smartphone, let alone a laptop, so at least I don’t have to worry about him seeing this.  _

_ Who does he think he is, defending my books to my face? I told him my novels were trash and he went spitting mad. Forked tongue, flaming curls, glacial eyes. He’s an impossible endeavour.  _

_ I hope I never see him again. _

*

Neil gently rapped a knuckle on the doorway: he’d bypassed the small waiting area in favour of the office,  _ Sheriff  _ inscribed with golden letters. When he heard Renee’s gentle  _ come in!  _ he pushed the door open and stepped inside. 

Renee beamed at him when he sat down by her desk. Behind her was Dan’s desk with a sign saying  _ back in ten  _ propped up against the computer. Neil focused his attention on these things - small, insignificant details, like how Renee only had blue pens - because he felt a sudden and all-encompassing wave of discomfort under Renee’s scrutiny. 

“How are you today, Neil?”

“Fine,” Neil said shortly, toying with his sleeves. “You said you wanted to see me?” 

Her smile, somehow, grew. “Well, seeing as you’ve signed a lease to stay in Palmetto for the foreseeable future, I was wondering if you needed help getting a job?”

He thought about the millions that he had tucked away, millions that he felt ill approaching. Neil shrugged. “I don’t have very impressive qualifications.”

“I’m sure we can find something,” Renee promised. “You finished your GED?”

_ With a few hiccups, _ Neil thought dryly, leaning his arms on her desk. “Yeah.”

“Any tertiary education?”

He bit his lip and shook his head. “Never finished a degree. But - I was going to go to Edgar Allen, up in Virginia. Maths, majoring in statistics.” 

Renee arched a brow. “Edgar Allen?”

Neil shrugged again. 

“I’ll have to talk to Dan about it, but you might be able to help out with some finance and administration work around here,” Renee leaned over and gently patted his hands. “There would probably be a probationary period, just to see what you can handle, but it’d be no offence to you.”

“You’d let me work with you?” Neil remarked. 

Renee snorted. “It would be hardly fair if either of us didn’t give you a chance, seeing as Dan dropped out of college and I never got the chance to go in the first place. We both made it through the police academy on a hair and a whim.” Her eyes glittered. “You probably have more in common with most of us than you think, Neil.” 

_ I fucking hope not,  _ Neil thought. 

“I’ll think about it,” he told her, clutching his bag to his chest as he walked out. 

*

**_I knew better than to do this again_** _posted on a.doe.tumblr.com at 12:42 am on 6/12/20-_

_ I have dealt with men who are pretty to look at. I have dealt with men who were vaguely interesting enough to capture my attention for a brief period. I cannot contend with a man who is both.  _

_ He appears out of nowhere with nothing but a spiel of lies and a duffel bag of running clothes and shitty jeans. He has money, supposedly. But that didn’t stop him from snatching a job.  _

_ Where?  _

_ Right down the road from my place of work, of course. He’s smart too, apparently. With all his nerdy little calculations. The women he works with love him and won’t shut the fuck up about how helpful he is. Every fucking Tom, Dick and Harry are flocking to him, wanting a piece of him. Even in this town of freaks, he’s a novelty. _

_ So now I see him every day. Not just because we work near one another, but because he visits. He sits in the window during his lunch break and reads the book I gave him or keeps working. _

_ I lose so much time watching him. The way he reads is animated. He’ll smile a little bit here and there, or push his bottom lip into a pout. Sometimes he furrows his brow as he frowns, eyes narrowed. _

_ The bastard dog-ears page corners too, like a heathen. Like serious, the fuck is wrong with him? The fuck is wrong with  _ me?

_ I’ll figure this out. He seems like someone who will vanish in a puff of smoke, someone who’s never known certainty or stability. He’ll be gone soon, and I can go back to my life of loathing and lonesomeness.  _

_ How theatrical of me.  _

*

The girl behind the coffee machine looked up and smiled. “Hi! Welcome.” The cafe was decorated like a 50s diner, with checkered tablecloths and little white jugs filled with daisies. Lace curtains hung in the windows, and the only girl working had a floral dress on, her ginger curls bouncing from two buns. Her face was smattered with freckles.

“I was at Nicky’s last Wednesday,” the young woman, name tagged as  _ Katelyn,  _ said. “Nice to see you again, Neil.” 

“I don’t think we talked,” Neil said, a little uneasy. 

Katelyn just laughed. “Don’t stress about it. I’m usually not around for very long: Aaron hates large social gatherings almost as much as his twin does.” Neil glanced at the sparkling ring on her finger. She followed his gaze and grinned. “Yes, we’re engaged. He’d come stumbling home after his graveyard residency shifts and my place was the only one open. Coffee is the key to a Minyard’s heart,” she winked. When he blinked, she merely laughed. “I talk too much. Ignore my blathering. Now, what can I get you?”

“Just a large black coffee,” Neil said, conscious of the elderly couple looking at him from the corner table. 

But then he thought about Andrew accusing Neil of overstaying his welcome, the second time he had appeared in his bookshop asking for a recommendation.  _ Coffee is the key to a Minyard’s heart. _

“One large, black coffee,” Katelyn smiled with a nod. “Anything else?”

“Actually,” Neil said, pulling a few extra dollars out of his wallet. “You wouldn’t happen to know Andrew’s order, would you?” When Katelyn arched her brow, Neil flushed. “I walk past him on my way back to work.”

“Of course,” she said, with a saccharine smile. Like she knew something Neil didn’t. 

That’s how he found himself walking down Perimeter Drive with a tooth rot-inducing cream disaster and his completely ordinary cup of coffee. When he shouldered his way into Andrew’s store, he felt something within his chest settle. 

Andrew wasn’t at his desk this time, but he must’ve heard the door shut, because he yelled “Fuck off.” from where he was hiding. Neil huffed and put down his bag by his usual spot in the bay window to search for him. 

He stood on a step-stool, balancing a box of books against one hip and reaching up to shove them haphazardly onto the top shelf. 

“That’s precarious,” Neil acknowledged, putting the coffees down on Andrew’s desk and immediately going to relieve the man of the box. Andrew scowled down at him but kept unloading the books. “Where’d these come from?”

“Columbia Library’s discard pile. They send them over on Friday mornings.” Andrew hopped a little to chuck a poetry pamphlet on top of the pile of religious satires. 

“It’s Friday?” Neil murmured, a little horrified, a little awed. He would have been in Palmetto for 2 weeks on Sunday. He already had a house and a job. He’d settled in so fast. 

Andrew snapped his fingers in front of Neil’s face. “Hold up the other box.” 

Neil obeyed, lip rolled between his teeth. 

“Quit thinking,” Andrew muttered, poking Neil’s forehead. When the box was emptied, he used Neil’s shoulder to get himself down from the stool, taking the box out of Neil’s arms. “Well? Don’t just stand there.”

“I got coffee?” Neil hedged. 

Andrew appraised him over the rim of his glasses. “Maybe you have some use after all.” 

Neil handed his whipped frappuccino disaster over and watched as Andrew took a sip. Paused. Then kept drinking. 

“It’s okay?” 

“Katelyn made it, didn’t she?” Andrew said. “Meddling snitch.”

“What?” 

Andrew waved him off. 

“Oh,” Neil remembered. “I finished the book. You were right. It  _ was  _ good.” Andrew rolled his eyes. “Will you recommend me another?”

“I don’t remember asking for a leech for my birthday,” Andrew grumbled, snatching his cane. 

“When was your birthday?” 

Andrew glanced over his shoulder. “The 4th of November.” 

“That was when A. Doe published his most recent book,” Neil mused. “Speaking of, when are you going to stock his works?”

Andrew simply flipped him off. Neil laughed.

Finally, Andrew found the book he was looking for. It was thin and frail. 

_ Wide Sargasso Sea.  _

Oh.

“Read it before?” 

Neil shook his head, clearing his throat. “No...I -” He swallowed again. “My mother liked Jane Eyre. Or, she used to.” 

“Before she died.” 

Neil wasn’t surprised by Andrew’s lack of tact. It somehow made it more tolerable. “No. Before she married her own Rochester and became the madwoman in the attic.” 

Andrew hummed. “I can find something else.” 

Neil just shook his head. “How much?” 

“A coffee, on credit,” Andrew said. 

Neil just nodded. 

*

**_fuck this_** _posted on a.doe.tumblr.com at 5:39 am on 13/12/20-_

_ Excerpt from probably another shitty draft that I’ll throw in the bin: _

_ There’s something around him, a soft glow that is warm to the touch. He doesn’t understand it. Softness isn’t allowed. Softness isn’t welcome. It has always been the byproduct of something crueller.  _

_ But he wants to reach out. Fingertips to fingertips, breath warm on his skin. As fall melts into winter, his bed is cold. He can stand the emptiness, but he’s freezing to death.  _

_ This boy, he thinks, could kill him. He could let him in and watch as the boy situates himself, grows his roots till he’s still and secure. But what happens when he leaves? When he rips himself out and takes gruesome chunks of his soul with him? He will leave gaps and holes that only he can stitch closed.  _

_ He isn’t sure if he can risk that. He isn’t sure how much leftover soul he has to give, and if there would be enough for him to continue after the boy leaves.  _

_ He watches him. The boy - his boy. He watches him smile.  _

I’m going to die,  _ he thinks. And this isn’t the first time he’s thought that.  _

_ But this is the first time he’s considered how painful it might be. _

_ ~ _

_ we’re not talking about it. This post should get no notes. And no, this isn’t about anyone in particular. Don’t ask stupid fucking questions.  _

*

**_you idiots_** _posted on a.doe.tumblr.com at 10:42 am on 13/12/20-_

_ that post wasn’t meant to get any notes. fucking heartsick morons, the lot of you.  _

_ oh, and he’s bringing me coffee every day. god. I fucking hate him.  _

*

“Hey!” a warm voice called out. Neil drew to a pause, jogging around the park at the back of his house. He checked his watch: it’d just gone 7:30 in the morning. 

  
Matthew Donovan Boyd - Matt, for short - jogged over, grinning. 

“Morning!” he said, shaking out his hair. “How are you?”

“Good,” Neil admitted. “Got the morning off, so I slept in.” 

“It’s 7:30,” Matt objected. “The sun just came up.”

Neil shrugged. The man laughed. 

“Thursdays are my day off. Dan mentioned she let you go for the morning, so she can ponder over your probation.” 

Neil grimaced. “Yeah.”

Matt nudged him. “Don’t stress about it. Dan’s been marvelling at how overqualified you were for all the basic admin crap she was throwing at you. Seeing as we don’t have a mayor, Dan runs the town as Sheriff. She can’t do that on her own.”

“Thanks,” Neil said, weakly. Once again, he was astounded by the generosity and genuineness of Palmetto’s residents. 

Matt perked up. “Hey, seeing as we both have time, why don’t I take you down to the creek? It’s a twenty-minute run from here.” 

Neil curled his hand into fists, staunchly fighting against the strange wave of nausea that threatened to knock him over. “Yeah. That sounds great.” 

Matt cut through brush and wooded tracks as they departed the park and the familiar streets of urban Palmetto, diving into the untouched forest. The creek they arrived at had a small divot where it pooled, large rocks creating a small waterfall. It continued south-ward, burbling and gurgling. Matt washed his face in the water: when Neil lifted a handful, he saw that the water was crystal clear. 

“There used to be a factory town up the creek,” Matt told him, as they settled down on the larger rocks by the pool’s edge. “It’s a ghost town now, but the filth they put in here was truly something else.” He cocked his head. “We got a small dam a few years ago, which cleans the water before it comes down. There’s no one to put more shit into the river anymore, but occasionally we’ll get the odd log or steel rod from a collapsing warehouse.” 

Overhead, the few remaining birds tittered and flittered. Sunlight filtered through the branches, moving gently in the breeze. Though it was winter, there were enough evergreen pines that Neil felt enclosed. Safe. 

“This whole place seems unreal,” Neil muttered. 

“Here?” Matt inquired. “Or Palmetto?” 

“Both,” Neil croaked out, wrapping his arms around himself. 

“It takes a lot of work,” Matt admitted. “Individually and communally. To get better. To heal.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Neil said, fingertips brushing through the icy water beneath him. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“You’ve already started,” Matt insisted, earnest. “I don’t know what you’ve been through, or where you’ve come from, but it seems like you’ve found something here, Neil.” 

Neil swallowed around the cotton wad in his throat. “Thanks, Matt.”

The man rested his hand on Neil’s shoulder. He didn’t flinch away. “Any time.” 

*

**_fuck off_ ** _ posted on a.doe.tumblr.com at 9:27 pm on 14/12/20- _

_ Love isn’t real. Stop asking me this shit. _

*

“Okay,” Dan said, having seated Renee and Neil around the largest table she could scrounge up. Across it was a map of Palmetto, and next to that was a stack of things that Neil assumed was Dan’s to-do list, an ever-expanding entity that it was. 

“We’ve got a team of three, now,” she continued, stabbing her pen into the centre of the map. “We’re going to sort out every problem that’s been hanging around for the last five years, ever since I snatched up sheriff-hood. It was left in administrative shambles. Let’s create a town that reflects its people, yeah?” 

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Renee said, cripplingly cheerful. 

Astounded, and just a little bit intrigued, Neil nodded.

*

_ email sent to  _ _ a.doe.@outlook.com _ _ at 6:43 pm on 20/12/20- _

_ Coffee tomorrow morning? FYI, I’ve scanned through your blog. Sure you don’t want to talk about it? _

_ Sincerely,  _

_ Betsy _

_ * _

_ email sent to  _ _ bee.dobson@gmail.com _ _ at 6:52 on 20/12/20- _

_ Neil brings me coffee (even on Saturdays, when he’s not working), so don’t bother, but if you want to come over you can. You’ve heard of Neil Josten, right? Of course, you have. You know everything. Thus, there is nothing to talk about. _

_ A. _

_ * _

_ email sent to  _ _ a.doe.@outlook.com _ _ at 7:28 pm on 20/12/20- _

_ Definitely coming over. Even on Saturdays, you say? How interesting. See you tomorrow! _

_ Sincerely,  _

_ Betsy _

*

Neil met with Allison outside the inn, early Saturday morning. She was ready and waiting for him in a hot pink Porsche, which was obscene and just a little bit hideous, in the way that expensive things always were. 

“Are you ready?” she called, rolling down the window. 

Neil rolled his eyes, clambering into her car. “How are we supposed to fit stuff in here?” 

“Don’t be silly, we’ll get everything shipped to your place. You need curtains in your bedroom and new pillows for those disgusting couches. We could get them reupholstered. Actually, why don’t we get new couches?” 

“Yes, because I want to spend money on new couches,” Neil said, dryly. 

“Don’t be silly,” she shushed him. “I’m paying.”

Neil sat upright. “You’re not. Allison, you’re  _ not.”  _

“What?” She said, waving her hand. “It’s all my dear father’s money, may God abolish his soul to hell. Renee would chide me for blasphemy, but I’m his only living kid, so I get all his cash. What else am I supposed to do with a millionaire’s fortune? I’ve already donated half of it: it’s about time I burnt through the rest.” 

“I have money,” Neil said, voice hushed. 

“Really,” Allison drawled. “How much?” 

Neil grit his teeth. “Fourteen million?” 

The woman blinked. Yanked the steering wheel. They weren’t on the interstate yet, so there were no cars to honk at them when she pulled over. Then she twisted in her seat and looked at him. “Are you serious?” 

Neil rubbed his eyes, exhausted. “Yeah.”

“What the hell, Neil. Did you win the lottery?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you the story,” he said, voice hoarse. “And I don’t know if I  _ can  _ tell the story without having a mental break, so please: let me pay.” 

“Alright,” Allison said, softer than Neil thought she could manage. She gently started the car again and swerved out, directing the car towards Columbia. Once they were on the interstate, she turned on the radio. 

Halfway through the drive, she leaned over and took Neil’s hand, uncurling his fist. 

“It doesn’t matter who you were or what you’ve done,” she said. “You’re here now.”

“Okay,” he said. 

“I mean it.” She glanced at him. “Neil? Don’t go deaf on me now.”

Neil huffed. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are,” she drawled. 

The trip quickly unfolded into an hours-long fiasco. She dragged him to every store imaginable, so much so that they all started melting together by lunchtime. At some point, she had him change clothes out of what he was wearing into something else, and then she got him a haircut. He didn’t look in the mirror, and she didn’t say anything. 

She also got him an ugly Christmas sweater. 

“It’s tradition,” she explained. “I have everyone at the inn for drinks on the 24th. Do you celebrate Christmas?” 

Neil shook his head. “No, not since I was a child.”

“It’s nondenominational and compulsory,” she insisted. “So you’d better be there.” 

He smiled weakly. She pinched his cheek. 

Neil was exhausted by the time they returned to Palmetto: she dropped him straight home, arms laden with bags. He had no idea what was within them, a distinct hole in his memory appearing where the last few hours should have been. She honked as her car tore away from the curb. 

He dumped the bags onto the couch. Seeing it all there was even more confronting, so he grabbed his phone and keys and walked right back out the door. Despite his aching feet, he directed himself towards Perimeter Avenue, the afternoon sun warm on his skin. 

His phone started buzzing. He rolled his eyes but put the phone to his ear anyway: if it was Allison (who just bullied his phone number out of him on the way home), he’d probably forgotten something. 

“Hello?” 

“Hello, Junior.” 

Neil nearly dropped the phone. Sweat plastered the plastic screen to his burnt cheek. Somehow he was still standing, even though his lungs were completely deprived of air. 

Somehow, he managed an even voice as he said: “They gave you phone rights, Lola?”

“I wasn’t your father’s favourite for nothing, Nathaniel.” 

“That’s not my name,” Neil snapped. 

“Yes,” Lola said, amused like an adult was amused at a toddler tantrum. “They told me you had changed it. Do you think that will fix anything, Nathaniel? Think that’ll change what people think of you when they find out the truth? There are still people that want you locked up, too. You’re Nathan’s blood and bone. You don’t know anything else.”

He couldn’t breathe. His eyes were closed. He was in the chair again, in the basement, wrists trapped, his father resting the blade of his favourite cleaver between his eyes, nicking into the skin on the bridge of his nose. He’d asked for a blowtorch. He’d threatened to hamstring Neil with that blunt axe, the one that was on the wall in the living room and only used for special occasions. 

But then he’d lived. And Nathan was dead. 

“You’re wrong,” he whispered. 

“What?” 

His father died at the end of February. For months, Neil camped out in different flats around Quantico as they dismantled the Malcolms, Jackson Plank, even DiMaccio. He was in and out of interrogation rooms and law firms, agents’ offices and courts. He hid from the press as they hounded after the Butcher’s son, miraculously alive and well: the spitting image of his father.

Much like his years on the run, his time was constantly snatched away from him. He was pretty sure he hadn’t had a moment to himself and his thoughts till he got off that bus in Palmetto and walked to the town’s centre. 

He had been so terrified of what he’d find, now that there was nothing to run from. But he’d found Dan, and Allison, and Matt. Renee, Abby, Wymack, Nicky, Aaron and Katelyn, too. He found a house. A job. 

And Andrew. 

Neil wasn’t sure why Andrew was a feat all on its own, but he was. 

“You’re wrong,” Neil said, a little louder. “I am free. I am alive. I will never be like my father, and you should regret you ever followed him. Look where it got you. Trapped, forever.” 

Her sickly-sweet tone turned into a snarl. “Watch it, Junior. I vowed to your father that I wouldn’t let you forget him, so long as I live -” 

Neil snapped his phone closed, cutting her off mid-sentence. 

And then he was running. 

Sprinting. The wind was flying through his hair, ruining its new style, the new long-sleeved shirt clinging tightly with sweat. The jeans he wore chafed, but at least he had his old lace-ups to make sure he didn’t slip.

He didn’t know where he was going. He just knew that he had to go  _ somewhere.  _ He needed - he needed -  _ something.  _ He didn’t know. He hadn’t a clue. He just kept running, and running, and running, until his legs ached and his chest burned and his legs were threatening to collapse unto themselves and - 

It was then that he almost bowled Andrew over. 

The blonde hair drew him to a pause. He wasn’t wearing black, for the first time since Neil had met him. Instead, he wore a navy blue jumper, woollen and probably knitted by Renee. There were rips in his jeans. Why were there rips in his jeans?

  
Why was he here? Where  _ was  _ he?

“Neil,” Andrew said, voice low. He stepped away from the woman - there was an unfamiliar woman, standing there by Andrew’s side - and took Neil’s wrist. Slowly, Andrew managed to uncurl his fingers. The phone was clutched there till Andrew pried it from sweaty fingers. 

“Hey.  _ Neil.  _ Snap the fuck out of it.” Andrew’s hand curled around the back of Neil’s neck. 

“I’ll go,” murmured the woman. Andrew nodded tersely and didn’t say goodbye, grabbing Neil by the collar and dragging him inside the shop.

“What happened?” he demanded, sitting Neil down. It smelled like it always did, of parchment and cinnamon and oak. Neil felt numb, even to the familiar crocheted cushions of the bay window. 

In front of him, Andrew sat down. His prosthetic leg stuck out to one side, his cane thrown carelessly to the floor. 

“She called me,” Neil breathed. “She called me from jail.” 

Andrew said nothing. 

“Browning swore she wouldn’t get an appeal, but she’s already got phone privileges. She’d do anything to get back at me. She’s going to come for me.” 

“Who is she?”

Neil laughed miserably. “I don’t even know. My step-mom? My father’s favourite secretary?” 

“And your father?”

“Don’t worry about him,” Neil managed. “He’s dead. He’s gone forever.” 

Andrew’s brow didn’t unfurrow. 

“She called me ‘Junior’,” Neil whispered. “I hadn’t heard that name for years.” 

“She’s not welcome in this town,” Andrew said. “I’ll make sure of it.” 

“You? You can’t.”

“How do you think I lost this?” Andrew gestured to his leg. “If I promise you protection - and if you take it - I will stop at nothing to ensure you stay alive.”

“No, I -” He closed his eyes. “They’re all gone, now. Locked away or dead. I’m making a ruckus over a pathetic phone-call, but I’m so used to running. So used to hiding. Now the only thing pursuing me are my ghosts, but I don’t know how else to fight against them.” 

“Luckily for you,” Andrew said, slowly hauling himself upright. A hand above Neil’s elbow helped him up too, till they were standing chest to chest. “I’m equipped for the paranormal, too. Come on,” he said, tugging Neil’s sleeve. “I’ll drive you home.”

“You have a car?” Neil asked weakly, stumbling along behind him. 

Andrew’s glare was palpable. “I lost my left leg, moron.” 

“Oh.” 

Andrew didn’t let go of Neil’s wrist, not till they arrived outside Neil’s house. 

And Neil - well, he couldn’t say that he minded. 

*

**_*_ ** _ posted on a.doe.tumblr.com at 4:55 pm on 21/12/20- _

_ I don’t just want to know his story. I want to be in it.  _


	4. climax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some mild arson in this one

Neil wasn’t talking about it, so neither did Andrew. The only difference that Saturday afternoon had was that Andrew knew where Neil lived now, and sometimes he’d find himself outside Neil’s place when he went for his evening walks, stretching out his stiff left hip. It was in these moments that Andrew wondered what to give Neil in return. 

He didn’t feel obligated to share his secrets, nor did being around Neil make him feel indebted. He just - felt like someone should know. Felt like Neil was the right person to know. 

The man had barely been in Palmetto for a month, and he’d probably skip town as soon as someone looked at him funny. That’s what Andrew told himself, over and over, in the privacy of his bedroom. 

But when he saw him, walking into his bookstore, waving as he rushed into work (late as he quite often was), or in Katelyn’s cafe, Andrew felt something in his chest constrict. It made him forgo all sense and reason. He wanted to kiss Neil stupid. He wanted to kill him dead. He _wanted._

“Andrew!” Nicky called from the living room. “We’re going to be late!” 

Andrew sighed and slammed his laptop shut, shunting it off to one side. He hastily shuffled to reattach his prosthetic and ambled over to his dresser, pulling out jeans and Renee’s sweater. It took him another five minutes to wriggle into his pants - jeans weren’t exactly designed for metal legs - and quickly dealt with hair after tugging the turtleneck on. 

It was black, as most things were, but incredibly soft. There were grey snowflakes embroidered into the cuffs, only a few shades lighter than the black wool. Everyone wore their most festive sweaters to Allison’s Christmas Eve debacle, and not even Andrew was allowed to opt-out of it. He’d been wearing the same sweater to the occasion for the past two years. 

“Took your time,” Aaron grumbled, letting Katelyn pull him off the couch. 

_Sorry I lost a leg for you and now only have three functioning limbs,_ Andrew thought but didn’t say. The four of them trundled out to Andrew’s GS, Andrew listening to Katelyn and Nicky’s banter. Erik was arriving tomorrow morning from Germany, just in time for presents. 

Everyone was so neatly paired off. It was sickening. 

The inn was dressed up with lights by the dozen, tresses of paper snowflakes hanging down from the old ceiling lights. It was warm inside - thank fuck - and they all shed their coats in the entranceway. Wreaths of holly were hung on every door, and little snowmen decorated the reception desk. They bypassed it for the large sitting room, where everyone would be gathered. 

Most residents of Palmetto would stop by, at least for a half-hour. It was why Allison opened up the backdoors to the porch and lit a bonfire so that people had enough room. Mulled wine was served by the gallon, and Mrs Hernandez’s soups were kept warm in one corner, platters of cheese on every table. 

Renee and Allison, attached at the hip, greeted them. Renee grinned at Andrew’s sweater, and in return, Andrew let her rest a hand on his shoulder and give a light squeeze. She then leaned into his ear and said: “Neil’s out on the porch.” 

Andrew flipped her off, eyes scanning the room. When he found who he was looking for, he bid them both goodnight and walked straight towards her. 

Betsy welcomed him with a smile and a spot by her on the couch. They’d spoken for hours on Saturday, merely four days ago, but she was one of the few people he could withstand for extended periods.

“I hope everything was fine after I left on Saturday,” she opened with, taking a sip of her hot cocoa before offering Andrew the same mug. He took it and nearly drank half before giving it back. It was perfectly sweet. Andrew wondered if he could sneak into the kitchens and get some whipped cream. 

“It was fine,” he conceded. “He calmed down.” 

Betsy hummed knowingly. 

“Shut up,” Andrew muttered. 

“You should give yourself a break, Andrew,” she admonished. “You’ve written three full novels in as many years. You work too hard. Go have some fun.” 

When Andrew glared at her, she simply wiggled her eyebrows. 

Andrew’s version of ‘fun’ used to be going to a club, having just enough whisky to feel it, and then dragging someone into the back of a bathroom stall. After the crash, there was no more alcohol, and Andrew wasn’t about to go into a situation where he could be physically overpowered. He was stronger now, more used to his prosthetic, but it was still a risk. And a risk with no benefits wasn’t a risk at all: it was just a hazard. 

“There’s your boy, A. Doe,” Betsy teased. 

Andrew looked up immediately and saw Neil standing by the door, a full glass of mulled wine untouched in his hand. He was wearing a blue sweater, covered in tiny, embroidered snowmen. It was horrific and perfectly matched to the ocean shade of his eyes. In the warm light, his tanned skin looked almost pearlescent, his scars lined with golden thread. 

“He’s not my boy,” Andrew managed. “He’s no one’s.” 

Betsy just smiled. “I think he’s looking for you.”

Neil’s scanning gaze landed on where Andrew was sitting and immediately softened, the spark reappearing within an instant. Andrew couldn’t stand the big room and all these people anymore. He shoved himself off the couch and stalked back the way he’d entered. Distantly, he hoped that Neil would follow. 

He did. Appearing by Andrew’s side at the inn’s entrance, he trotted down the stairs and waited for Andrew at the bottom. Andrew took out his packet of cigarettes as he led Neil away from the inn to where his car sat, a little way down the street. The only light source was the inn itself but hidden around the corner, there was nothing but the stars. 

Neil’s breath clouded between them as he sat on the hood of Andrew’s car. He accepted Andrew’s box and lighter, pursing his lips around the cigarette once it was lit. Andrew tucked his things away and leaned against the car, next to where Neil sat. 

It had been four days since they’d spoken last, and the glimpses of each other in between had been fleeting. Now that they were close again, Andrew could see that Neil’s haircut had grown in a little and that Allison had smudged eyeliner around his eyes. 

“You suck,” Andrew muttered. 

Neil had the audacity to laugh. “What have I done this time?”

Andrew shrugged. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask about this car,” Neil said, pressing one hand to the sleek metal that he sat on. “Doesn’t quite seem practical, does it?” 

“I chose the car that’d eat up my portion of Tilda Minyard’s life insurance, seeing as I was apparently a beneficiary of her worth.”

“Your mother,” Neil deduced. “Was that how you lost your leg?” 

Andrew hummed. “Her brakes were faulty. Went through a red-light: my side got T-boned by another car, which sent her side right through a pole.” He took a drag of his cigarette. “A real sad story.” 

Neil was looking at him funny. “Why’d you do it?”

Andrew looked up at the sky. Of course, Neil would see right through him. “She wouldn’t stop hurting Aaron. We’d moved away for college and she still didn’t fix herself: when we got back, it was the same shit all over again. I gave her a chance. It’s not my fault she didn’t take it. Does that scare you, Josten?” 

“ _‘Sometimes death is best. Sometimes it’s not. Either way, it happens.’”_ Neil murmured. He then cleared his throat. “I’m in no place to judge.”

Andrew stiffened. “What did you say?”

  
“Oh, the quote?” Neil smiled wryly. “It’s from A. Doe’s second book. _Irrefutable Truths._ ” 

Andrew knew exactly where it was from. He just had to hear Neil say it. He felt nauseated but in a good way. He was terrified like he was on the precipice of a cliff. He was about the fall, and he had no idea how far the drop went, or if he would survive. 

He took the step, anyway. 

“Why do you like him? His works?” How he said it with an even voice, he hadn’t a clue. 

Neil just shook his head. “I don’t know. I just feel understood. The stories are rivetingly reassuring. That I’m not the only one who’s been fucked over by fate, again and again. I don’t know why I find that comforting. Usually I can’t stand being known.” He looked down at Andrew and smiled gently. “Lately I’m finding that it’s not too bad, so long as it’s the right people.” 

Andrew struggled to keep upright, weak at the - well, knee. “How many books has he written?”

“Three,” Neil supplied easily. His smile went sheepish. “Though I haven’t read the third one. I’ve been meaning to, but since I don’t have a computer to order it from, and my local bookstore refuses to stock his books…” 

Andrew scoffed. “Junkie.” 

Neil just hummed. He tried coaxing life back into his cigarette to no avail, so Andrew leaned off the car and turned to face him. Neil’s knees split to let him closer, and then they were brow to brow, Andrew holding up the lighter to reignite both of their cigarettes. Even when he slipped the lighter away, they stayed close. Neil smelled like mint and nicotine and soap. 

A flash startled the two of them out of their bubble. 

“Found you!” Allison crowed, pulling the Polaroid out of her stupid camera. “No sneaking off from the party. Come on, back inside you go.” She squinted at the photo and then cooed. “That’s going in the album.”

“The album?” Neil asked weakly, as Andrew took both their cigarettes and rubbed out the cherries, slotting them back into his pack for later. Andrew let Neil put a hand on his shoulder as he slid off the hood of his car. 

“Allison had a very large collection of photographs over the years,” Andrew muttered. “It’s garish.” 

Neil grinned at him. “Did she capture your black-haired phase? Please tell me she did.” 

“I’ve never dyed my hair,” Andrew objected. 

“I have,” Neil said, cheerful. 

His smile then faltered briefly as he looked over Andrew’s shoulder at something down the street. Andrew looked back to follow his gaze and saw nothing, so he laced his fingers around Neil’s wrist and tugged him back towards the inn. 

“C’mon,” he said. “You’re going to help me find whipped cream in the kitchens.” 

“The fact that you still have teeth is a miracle,” Neil said weakly, letting himself be distracted. 

“God’s compensating for this,” Andrew said, rapping his knuckles against the fibre-glass portion of his thigh. 

Neil tried to stifle his snort. It didn’t really work. 

*

**_more draft bullshit to cope with an over-enthusiastic family and holidays_ ** _posted on a.doe.tumblr.com at 4:46 am on 26/12/20-_

_“Look at me._ Look _at me. I’m real. See?”_

_A hand on his wrist._

_“I’m not going anywhere. You’re not going anywhere.”_

_“Fuck you,” he says, voice hoarse. His apparition - who is less of an apparition, and more of an unattainable fantasy, someone he could never have and should never have wanted in the first place - loops his fingers around his wrist out of retaliation. Pulls him closer._

_He has never wanted to kiss someone before. It was always too much, too close, too soft. It’s confusing. His lips brush over his cheek and his hand cups his jaw, and its too much of his and him and he. It’s a blessing and a curse because he doesn’t know where his hands and lips end and his pipedream’s hands and lips begin._

_Pipedream._

_“Pipedream,” he says, but it’s against the man’s throat, and it’s soft, almost reverent._

_“I’m not going anywhere,” he says again, and this time, he believes it._

*

Palmetto was always deathly quiet between Christmas and New Year’s, so Andrew had a lot of time to think over his gift. 

He turned up at Neil’s place at 10 p.m. on the 31st of December, having wheedled his way out of Nicky’s New Year’s Eve celebrations. He was going on a wish and a whim, unsure if Neil would even be home when he knocked. 

The front of his place had neatened itself up, and there was a deadbolt on the front door. Andrew could tell by the screw placements. He knocked three times, leaning on his cane. 

Neil answered the door an odd while later, blinking at Andrew’s arrival. 

“I have Nicky’s empanadas,” Andrew explained, feeling off-kilter. Neil just smiled and let him in. 

The place was warm, thanks to a radiator in the corner of the living room. The place was an amalgamation of donated things, with new curtains but old throw pillows refurbished couches and a slab of pine on top of two milk crates as a coffee table. It was eccentric, and not _Neil,_ but Andrew figured not even Neil knew what ‘Neil’ looked like. 

Neil led him into the kitchen and took out two plates and two sets of cutlery as Andrew threw the food into the microwave. He put down his bag, Neil’s gift weighing heavier than it ought to. 

On the kitchen bench was Allison’s stupid photo album. 

“She lent it to me,” Neil explained, grinning over his shoulder at Andrew. “You’re not featured often, don’t worry.” 

“Good,” he grumbled but tugged it towards him nevertheless. He saw Matt carrying Dan on his back, Allison posing in the mirror with Dan and Renee kneeling in front of her, Abby and Wymack’s wedding, Katelyn posing with a coffee art she’d been particularly proud of. Pictures from Aaron’s med-school graduation were there, as well as Dan inheriting sheriff-hood of Palmetto and a blurry shot of Nicky leaping into Erik’s arms. 

Andrew saw himself once when Nicky made him and Aaron pose out the front of the house they bought, moving out of Tilda’s old place and into something better. There was also a shaky picture of Andrew standing for the first time after the crash, but it wasn’t well taken. Probably because Allison had tried to be discrete. 

Then there was the brand new photo of him and Neil. It was dark: Neil and Andrew’s faces eclipsed one another. Andrew hadn’t even noticed he’d put a hand on Neil’s knee to steady him. 

He closed the book and pushed it away in favour of Neil delivering a plate of food. 

“It’s sweet,” Neil said softly. “My family never had anything like that. I’m pretty sure there was only one photo in the whole place, of my parents’ wedding.” 

Andrew glanced at him. 

“Why the fuck they decided it was a good idea, I suppose I’ll never know,” Neil continued, stabbing his food. 

Andrew hummed. “I was a foster child until I was 13. Then I was in juvie till I was 18.” Neil looked up at him, intrigued. “Why my mother decided keeping one child was morally better than getting rid of both, I’ll never know either.” 

“I didn’t know that,” Neil said, voice quiet. 

Andrew shrugged. “Not many people do.” 

“She really was a piece of shit,” he mused. 

“I don’t think you can talk,” Andrew arched his brow. Neil subconsciously rose his fingers to his marred cheeks. Andrew reached out and pulled his hand away. Their fingers intertwined, and for a while, they stayed that way. Neil kept looking at him, and he was looking like _that._

“I have something,” Andrew muttered, slipping off the stool. He tried pressing the backs of his hands to his burning cheeks as he was turned away, but it was futile. He reached into his bag and pulled out his book, _Dear Mom._ He always had a reserve stock, of about a dozen or so copies. They were stashed under his bed. 

He quickly shoved it at Neil, crossing his arms after he did so. Neil slowly reached out to take the book off the counter. Then he smiled. 

“His third book,” he said. “Andrew, you didn’t have to.” 

Andrew just shrugged. 

He opened it, flicking past the publication page and to the title. There, in Andrew’s favourite pen, was his signature. _A.Doe._ Neil’s fingers traced the signature. 

“How?” He asked, voice strangled. “How the hell did you get this?” 

“He has signed preorders,” Andrew lied, tucking his chin to his chest. 

“I didn’t know that,” Neil said, his grin beginning to unfurl. 

“Of course you didn’t. You’re a prehistoric hermit who has never used the internet.” 

Neil barked out a laugh, his head tipped back slightly. 

_Oh, fuck,_ Andrew thought. 

Neil put the book down on the bench and twisted to face him, hands clasped in his lap. “Andrew?” 

“What.” 

“Thank you,” he said. “You’re amazing.” 

“I hate you,” Andrew croaked and took Neil’s jaw between his fingertips.

Kissing Neil felt just like how he’d written it, except - well, except that it was real. Andrew leaned back to clarify, to ask for consent, to gather his bearings, but Neil was already smiling into the next kiss, and the next one, and the one after that. They were perfectly matched when Neil was on the stool and Andrew was on the ground, and Andrew was tumbling. Spinning, free-falling through space and time. It was exhilarating. 

And then when Andrew was walking backwards, Neil was following, and they fell onto his couch, Neil facing the large front window that looked out to the street, Andrew in his lap. His left leg needed maneuvering, stiffer than a leg normally would be, but then Neil kissed the corner of his jaw and Andrew almost collapsed against him, all his efforts futile. 

“I’ve never done this before,” Neil managed when Andrew pulled back a fraction to catch his breath.

“So we’ll figure it out as we go,” Andrew said, cupping Neil’s cheeks with his hands. They sat, forehead to forehead, taking a moment to regather themselves. “Don’t touch me unless I tell you to and don’t do anything you don’t want to.” Neil nodded, eyes fluttering closed. He was beautiful, auburn eyelashes fanned out across his cheeks and hands knotted into the throw blanket underneath them. 

Slowly, he tilted up Neil’s chin. His eyes fluttered open again, pupils swallowing his irises whole in the lowlight. 

“You’ll tell me it’s okay, won’t you?” Neil asked. “You’ll tell me if you like it?” 

_Jesus fucking Christ,_ Andrew thought, pulling him back into a kiss. His glasses were crooked between their cheeks. He dragged his lips over Neil’s cheekbone, the ridged lines of knife scars fading into a jawline and the tendons in his neck. Neil took the opportunity to lightly press his lips to the corner between Andrew’s neck and shoulder, and Andrew couldn’t quite stifle the hitch in his breath. 

It was all-consuming. Here were two men who had never found comfort in physical affection, men that had never been exposed to it in the first place. Fate had told them that they couldn’t have this, again and again, and again, but here they were. Telling their own story, with hands and lips and whispers. 

And then Neil stopped. 

Andrew drew back, immediately on edge. 

“‘ndrew,” the man breathed out, looking over Andrew’s shoulder. “There’s someone out there. There’s someone by your car.” 

Andrew immediately eased himself off Neil’s lap and spun around, squinting out into the dark. He couldn’t see anyone, but Neil was already off the couch. From a kitchen drawer, he grasped a gun and was out the front door before Andrew had even blinked. 

Andrew’s armbands weighed down his arms. He remembered when he used to carry knives in them, always armed to the teeth. Living in Palmetto for five years had taught him to lower his guard, but Neil had only been here for a month. 

Andrew followed Neil outside, where the man was close to hyperventilating. 

“Neil,” he said, voice low. “Are you sure you saw someone?” 

That was when he heard a match being struck. 

Neil yelled for Andrew to get back, immediately shielding Andrew’s body with his own. They fell onto the grass of Neil’s front yard as Andrew’s car burst into flames. Andrew’s eyes were closed but he could see the burst of light from behind his eyelids, the heat rolling over his skin. 

“Fuck!” Neil snapped, on his feet in seconds. He hauled Andrew up to his feet, steadying him when he stumbled. “Where the fuck are you, then? Show yourself!” 

The stranger took a running start down the street, bursting free of their hiding place. Neil tore after him, a blur, a smudge across Andrew’s vision. He’d dropped the gun. Andrew cursed under his breath and abandoned the smoking wreckage of his car, following Neil the best that he could. 

Neil had caught up to the man with ease, fast as he was. He’d bowled him over despite being nearly a foot shorter than his target. Anger radiated off him in waves as he held the man’s arms behind his back, pressing his face into the ground with his shoe. 

By the time Andrew caught up to him, he caught the tail-end of what Neil was spitting. 

“...how much did she pay you, then? Half a million? One and a half? Did she want you to kill me, or did she want to savour that for herself?” 

“Neil,” Andrew managed. 

“Phone,” Neil said shortly. “Back pocket. Call Browning. Tell him I’ve been targeted.”

Andrew did as Neil directed him, dialling one of the half-dozen numbers in his flip phone. The man on the ground started fighting, so Neil knelt on his legs and kept his arms pinned in place. 

“It’s New Year’s Eve,” came an unfamiliar voice. “So this had better be good. Browning speaking.” 

“I’m calling from Neil Josten’s phone,” 

“Say Nathaniel Wesninski,” Neil bit out.

“This is Nathaniel Wesninski’s phone,” he corrected himself, staring at Neil. Fucking hell. Fucking _hell._ Wesninski. Neil was _Nathaniel Wesninski._ “He’s currently restraining a man who gassed my car.” 

“He thought it was mine!” Neil growled. Andrew stood closer so Browning could hear it, putting the phone on speaker. “He saw me sitting on the car’s hood on Christmas Eve. I _knew_ I spotted someone. She’s sent him after me.” 

“There’s been no evidence of her corresponding to someone other than her brother,” Browning argued. 

“You sure it was her brother?” Neil managed. “They could never stand each other, even on a good day. They only got along because my father needed them both. It doesn’t _matter_ if she did or didn’t send the correspondences. I’ve been fucking compromised, so fucking do something about it!” 

“I’ll call Dan,” Andrew said. Neil nodded, taking the gun out of Andrew’s hand and holding it to the man’s head.

“Who?” Browning asked. 

“Police,” Andrew said shortly. “Goodbye.” 

“Who the fuck are you again?” 

Andrew snapped the flip phone shut, having already received a response from Dan on his mobile.

“Will they hate me, Andrew?” Neil whispered. “When they find out who I am.” 

There wasn’t a soul who didn’t know who Nathan Wesninski was. He was the most sought-after serial killer on America’s east coast: his ring murdered and hid dozens, taunting the police for years. 

“That man was never your family,” Andrew said. “It doesn’t matter who you were. You’re here now. You’re one of us, now.”

Neil nodded. Andrew threaded his fingers into Neil’s hair as they waited for lights of red and blue, standing together as they braved the aftershocks of Neil’s two worlds colliding. 

*

Dan’s office had never looked so full. It was three in the morning, and Neil’s ‘Browning’ had just arrived. Abby was disinfecting the grazes on Neil’s hands and knees as she iced the bruising on Andrew’s hip from the fall. Dan was leaning against her desk with her arms crossed as Renee took notes. In Palmetto’s solitary holding cell, the man sat, refusing to give out his name or who he’d collaborated with. 

Neil’s leg was bouncing. His lip was rolled into his mouth. Not a few hours ago they’d been kissing, softened and winded by one another. Now Andrew was here, having just watched his burnt carcass of a car be towed away. 

“You thought you saw someone on Christmas Eve,” Browning reiterated, two other agents by the name of Towns and Kurt standing by his shoulders. “Why didn’t you think to mention it?” 

“I didn’t want to think anything of it,” Neil grounded out, muttering through his clenched jaw. Andrew wanted to ease the tension away with his fingertips, burn that corpse light out of his eyes. “I lived for eight years, paranoid out of my fucking mind. I didn’t want to keep living like that.”

Dan shook her head. She was astonished when the FBI had revealed Neil’s true name. Frankly, Andrew was still reeling too. The search for the Butcher, as he was aptly named, was a years-long fiasco. To think that his son was alive and well was alarming, but Neil _wasn’t_ his son. Neil wasn’t a Wesninski anymore. Maybe he never had been.

“We’ll take him up to Columbia,” Towns said. “See what we can find out with databases, go over any of the Wesninski circle’s correspondences.”

“Witness statements first,” Browning reminded him. “Ms Wilds, if we could use your office? These are sensitive matters.” 

“That’s Officer Wilds to you, agent,” Dan said primly. “And, if you must,” 

“Nathaniel,” Towns said, nodding towards the door that Dan had unlocked. 

Andrew stood. 

“Just Nathaniel,” Towns reiterated. 

“I think it’s best that you took them both,” Renee said sweetly. 

Andrew was allowed one chair and Neil the other. Browning asked for the by and by of everything Neil had been getting up to here, leaning against Dan’s desk with his arms crossed. 

“And him?” the man asked, jerking his head in Andrew’s direction. “The hell has he got to do with all of this?”

Neil looked to Andrew for a moment, lips parted on an exhale. 

They’d shared their first kiss only a few hours ago. They’d met little over a month ago. And yet, here Andrew was, holding onto Neil’s sleeve like it was a lifeline. 

“He’s important,” Neil managed, looking back to the agents. “To me.”

“I’m sure that’s unreciprocated, now that he knows,” Towns sneered to Kurt, under his breath. 

“Well,” Browning said, thumbing through a file of paperwork. “It’s a shame you’ll have to leave - “

Andrew’s heart lurched into his throat until Neil said: “I’m not going anywhere.”

The agent paused. “Excuse me?”

Neil shrugged. “She’ll find me, regardless of where I go. I’m not leaving. I’ve had enough of living in transitive states for a lifetime.”

“We can’t support this decision,” Browning argued. “It really would be safer - “

Neil arched his eyebrow. “Do you think I need protection? You just want to keep tabs on me. If you’re so paranoid about me turning into Nathan, you’ll know where to find me.”

Browning huffed and shook his head. “You’re _still_ insufferable.”

“It’s a curse,” Andrew agreed. Neil sent him a brief glare, though it lacked the heat it should’ve. 

Browning simply sighed and shook his head. “Fine. You’ll stay. You want the son of America’s most notorious murderer in your town?”

“Wesninski was infamous for his cruelty, but he’s hardly the cruellest thing.” Andrew cocked his head to the side. “Not that you pompous, privileged fucks would know.” Neil smothered his laughter with the back of his hand.

“Who did you say you were?” Towns said, glaring. 

“Andrew Minyard.”

“Might as well worm these details out of you now, rather than following up tomorrow.” Browning scrawled it down on his clipboard. “Date of birth, middle names, your jurisdiction of birth, next of kin?” 

“4th of November, Joseph, Oakland California, Aaron Minyard, twin.”

“Current occupation?” 

“Shop manager.” 

“Any previous aliases, convictions or records?”

Andrew felt his hip beginning to numb. “You can’t go looking this shit up yourself?” 

“Answer the question,” Towns sneered. 

Andrew sighed. “Juvie in California for five years at 13, arson. Changed my surname name at 18 to Minyard.”

“What was it before?”

That was the moment that Andrew realised: Neil was about to connect the dots. “Doe.”

“Doe?” 

“Yes, Andrew Joseph Doe. A dead body, foster child Doe. Clear, officer?” 

Neil’s gaze was searing a hole through his cheek. 

“Quite,” Browning said, tone sour. “Well, we’ll just get your phone number and let you both go home.”

They signed their respective declarations and were allowed out of Dan’s office. Renee took both of them outside, rubbing Neil’s shoulder empathetically and handing over Andrew’s cane. 

“I’ll drop you both home,” she said. “Just wait here till Dan and I have finished locking up.” 

_Well, shit,_ Andrew thought as the door to the station swung shut behind her. 

“You…” Neil whispered. “You’re _him.”_

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” Andrew murmured, cupping the curve of Neil’s hips in his palms as they stood chest to chest. His hands fitted perfectly. 

“A. Doe,” Neil continued, looking like Andrew hung the moon. _And_ the stars. “You’re A. Doe.” 

Andrew had always had a love-hate relationship with that name. He’d chosen it as his pseudonym to reclaim it and heal his relationship with his past, but now he realised that he’d just cultivated a wholly separate identity. One he didn’t assume as himself. One he kept at an arm’s length away. 

Maybe Neil knowing would let Andrew accept and heal.

“Thousands of people have that last name, Neil,” Andrew managed, voice strained. 

Neil just shook his head. “Don’t lie to a liar.” He looked a little dazed. “Andrew - you’re _famous._ How does no one know?” 

“I haven’t told anyone,” Andrew grumbled, cheeks flaming. “You’re famous too. It’s not that much of a marvel.” 

“For all the wrong reasons,” Neil said wryly, gesturing to the police station. His free hand rested on Andrew’s cheek. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe you’re _him.”_ He shook his head. “‘Preorder signings’ my _ass,_ Andrew.” 

“Fuck off,” Andrew said, tired and sore and a little shaken and a little too exposed. Neil seemed to understand all of it and laid off, his gaze softening as he stepped closer. A shield against - well, everything. 

Andrew felt perfectly sheltered. 

Fate, it seemed, was done with her games. 

“Alright,” Renee called, having bid Dan goodnight. “I’ll get you both home, yes?” 

“He’s staying at mine,” Andrew said, holding onto Neil’s wrist. “At least till we know his house is safe.” 

Neil hummed, still gazing at Andrew’s temple like a heart-sick fool. Andrew shoved his shoulder. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” 

“Like what?” Neil asked. 

Andrew let out a scathing noise and marched off towards Renee’s car. 

In the backseat of the police cruiser, their fingers inched across cool leather to intertwine. The New Year had broken hours ago, but for these two men, interlocking their fingers marked the true start of something new.

Something good.

It was as unreal as a fairytale. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :ooo


	5. resolution

Neil had Andrew’s laptop balanced on his lap as he checked through online banking statements and records. He’d been neglecting his monetary worth for months, but Andrew was finally forcing him to do something about it. 

Most of it was going to some far-off charity. Something that’d enable reading in a faraway country, for some children Neil would never meet, but of whom hoped he helped out anyway. He’d never realised that donating and charity work could be so satisfying. It was definitely Renee, getting into his head.

He still had a tolerable sum left over, some of which could be put aside for eventually buying his little place off Allison, but he still had a lump that had no purpose. Working at the police station let him live comfortably, so when he figured out where to put this last chunk, he’d be fine. 

“Hello!!” Nicky crowed, rapping on Neil’s front door. “Is Andrew in? Of course, he is. Where else would he be?” 

Neil snorted, hauling himself off the couch to let Andrew’s cousin in. He was bringing cookie batter over in preparation for his next Wednesday night fiasco, which would be tomorrow evening. Except the Hemmick-Minyard’s oven had just broken, so he was commandeering Neil’s. It would be Neil’s third Wednesday night party. They seemed to be getting better every time he attended, but that might have just been the perk of Andrew tucked into his hip.

“He’s in the shower,” Neil said, walking Nicky into the kitchen. “Tea?” 

“I’m good,” Nicky said cheerfully. “My, this place looks better every time I stop by.”

“Andrew hated the bareness,” Neil agreed, settling back onto the couch. 

Nicky hopped up onto the counter once the cookies were in the oven, scrolling mindlessly on his phone. Neil went back to his account, staring at the screen and searching for answers that most definitely weren’t there. Honey and cashew began to waft around Neil’s small house at the ten-minute mark. 

Nicky made a strangled noise of excitement. “Oh!” 

Neil glanced up. 

The man was grinning wildly at his phone. “A. Doe’s just announced a new release, coming in June! Holy shit.” He squinted, scrolling further down. “There’s a blurb now, too!” 

“Really,” Neil remarked, knowing Nicky would be oblivious to his dry tone. 

“Yes! Listen to this: 

_ “He’s been looking for nothing and wanting nothing and feeling nothing for years: What happens when someone comes along and ruins all his efforts? What is left when his detached resolve crumbles? _

_ He’s not religious, but if there was any semblance of faith, it would all rest in fate.  _

_ Because she was  _ so _ fucking cruel.” _

Andrew was paused at the doorway with wet hair, Neil’s hoodie, and a deadly glower. 

Nicky grinned. “Why, hello. You’ve been going walking plenty. You’re probably as healthy as you’ve ever been! Interesting that you always end up in the same place, though.” 

“Fuck off,” Andrew said decidedly, pushing himself over on one leg and a cane. On quiet, comfortable days like this, he often forwent the leg in its entirety, opting for lounging on the couch or commandeering Neil’s lap. 

“I was just reading out the blurb of A. Doe’s new book,  _ Pipedream,”  _ Nicky hummed off-tune as he cleaned his mixing bowl. “Sounds amazing. I’m looking forward to reading it. You should stock his works, Andrew. You’d make a killing: Everyone  _ loves _ his writing.” 

“How many times have I reiterated this?” Andrew insisted, crabby. 

“‘We don’t stock trash,’” Neil recalled, smiling at the memory of their first meeting. Andrew hummed, leaning over the back of the couch to look at what Neil was attempting to figure out.

“You’re too harsh!” Nicky insisted. “Both of you. I bet you’ve never even read his books,” the man shook his head pityingly. 

Neil arched his head back as Andrew leaned over the back of the couch. “You have them all fooled.”

“So do you, apparently,” Andrew mused. 

“How did you think you’d be able to hide it from me?” Neil grinned. “You’ve written a whole book about me: the hell did you think would happen when I picked it up and read it in June?”

Andrew just grumbled under his breath, resting his chin atop of Neil’s head as he looked at what Neil was doing. 

Neil was suddenly struck by an idea. “‘Drew?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“How do you feel about a new car?” 

The man paused. Neil felt his head tilt. “How much are we talking?”

Neil gestured to the screen in front of him. Andrew hummed gently. 

“I’ll think about it,” Andrew returned. 

“Nothing too impractical,” Neil objected. “Don’t get one of those ridiculous sports cars you can barely get into.”

“Fuck off,” Andrew retorted, sounding a little like a petulant child. Still, his hands slid down Neil’s chest and crossed over as his head came back down to bury itself in Neil’s neck.

“You’re welcome,” Neil said, amused. Andrew just grunted. 

“You guys are so cute,” Nicky gushed. Andrew and Neil both flipped him off simultaneously, which elicited a burst of laughter from Andrew’s cousin. Neil turned and hid his smile against Andrew’s cheek. 

And so: the writer found his muse, and the story found his author.

It wasn’t quite the happily-ever-after that every child dreams of, but it was pretty damned close.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thar she blows - what a sappy ending
> 
> hope u enjoyed!!!!
> 
> no but for real ty so much to the bb mods and my artist @thematicallycoherent it was a blast and i definitely will be joining in again next round!!
> 
> p.s. my friend with an amputated leg has full on launch-kicked an asshole who tried to bust in her house whilst we were hanging out (jumping up, whacking him in his nuts and then dropping to the floor) whilst hopping around without her prosthetic and it was wicked and i can definitely see andrew doing that for fun

**Author's Note:**

> ITS A HERE
> 
> pls check out @thematicallycoherent on tumblr!!!!! (how beautiful is her work omfg DREAMY)


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